


Madam

by saveupyourhopes



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Tom, Choking, F/M, Light BDSM, Pegging, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 14:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16557848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saveupyourhopes/pseuds/saveupyourhopes
Summary: Tom took up the package on the first day, sitting in the middle of his sprawling hotel bed in boxers and a nondescript white t-shirt.  The candy fell into his lap and, grinning, he unwrapped the blue cellophane and popped the tart strawberry drop into his mouth, tonguing it over into his cheek.  It was a small gesture, but a warm one and exactly the reason that just the thought of Madam made his heart overflow.





	Madam

Before he left for the work week, Madam had unzipped Tom’s luggage and placed a neat little care package in front of everything else, tucked under the straps fastening all his tidily folded clothes inside.  Several pairs of black latex gloves large enough to neatly stretch over Tom’s hands; a four ounce bottle of water-based lubricant; a single piece of Tom’s favorite candy, handmade exclusively in America; a love note, scrawled prettily on a piece of aged stationery and curled around the items, secured with a ribbon bow.

_Make use of these things at your leisure._  
_Be ready for me when you come home._ _  
_ \- M

Having something to look forward to made leaving the theater for an empty hotel room less miserable.  Knowing that he was doing something useful for Madam, something she had instructed him to do, made his stomach twirl happily inside when he thought about it.

Tom took up the package on the first day, sitting in the middle of his sprawling hotel bed in boxers and a nondescript white t-shirt.  The candy fell into his lap and, grinning, he unwrapped the blue cellophane and popped the tart strawberry drop into his mouth, tonguing it over into his cheek.  It was a small gesture, but a warm one and exactly the reason that just the thought of Madam made his heart overflow.

Without being told exactly what to do with the gloves and the lubricant, Tom knew.  He knew to fluff the abundance of hotel pillows up at the headboard and lay gently back onto them, lifting his hips and sliding his boxers down, kicking them off his feet. It was nerve wracking at first, that little twist of embarrassment as he acknowledged what he’s going to do. He’d gotten so used to Madam doing it for him—making sure he’s comfortable, making sure he’s enjoying himself and that he feels no pain; she takes such beautiful care of him.

He pulled a black glove on to his right hand, wiggling his fingers as the latex settled between them. The bottle of lubricant rest on the bed beside him. Tom pushed his shirt up over his belly. Madam’s little love note lay curled near him, and he reached for it with his gloved hand and set it closer, reading over the words. _Be ready for me_. His cock ached against his belly, a slick bead of precome catching the recessed lighting of the room at the head of it.

Just thinking of Madam made him yearn.  His fingers quivered as he took up the bottle of lubricant and clicked the cap open, dispensing some of it onto his gloved fingers.  He wouldn’t touch his cock. He knew what he was meant to be prepared for, and Madam hadn’t told him to touch himself except for this.  He dug his heels into the bed, sinking himself down into the pillows and canting his hips forward, his bare hand stroking its way up his shirt, fingers passing delicately over his nipples.

The lubed fingers of his gloved hand stroked at the tight pink furl of his hole. He twirled the strawberry candy over his tongue. It was easier to relax for Madam than for himself, Tom found; it took some coaxing, coaxing himself, and even then he resorted to letting Madam’s soft voice echo around in his mind.  He found focus, then, and squeezed his eyes shut, working one finger into himself, and then the next. Only two, tonight, and the nervous twiddling of a candy drop around in his mouth. The next night, three, and no comfort candy.

At the end of the week, two hours before his flight was to depart, Tom was able to lie on his back and, with minimal effort, slide his slicked gloved fingers into himself and curl them upwards and beckon at his prostate, stroking it, the firm slide of his fingertips over it setting his thighs to just gently quavering, toes curling into the bedsheets.

Ever a good boy, Tom always stops before he comes.

He collects himself, slides off the glove and washes his hands, checking himself in the mirror before pulling on his clothes.  Dark jeans, an oxblood corded sweater, a handsome pair of Chelsea boots that Madam had got him for his birthday this year. Tom takes up his one piece of luggage and makes for the airport, eager to get back.

_ETA: 7PM, EST_ , he sends her from the still grounded flight.

_Good. Have a safe flight. I miss you_ , she replies.

_I miss you too_ , he says, dragging his teeth across his bottom lip, the flesh turning from pink to white and then to red.  He puts the phone into airplane mode and reclines his seat halfway, closing his eyes.

 

* * *

 

The landing is turbulent enough to rouse Tom.  He blinks awake and raises his head, finding people restless and quietly excited with the prospect of landing.  In the process of gathering his things—his iPod, his neck pillow, the magazine he’d attempted to read before falling asleep—he’s bumped by the quiet young woman sitting beside him.

“Sorry,” he says.

 “My fault,” she tells him, meeting his eyes with a smile. She looks like a schoolteacher. She’s dressed like one. “More important than you’d think it is to be aware of where your elbows go when you’re on a plane.”

Tom tucks his tongue against the back of his teeth, laughing simply because she laughs, and that’s what he loves. That marks the end of their interaction, but it leaves him feeling suffused with a sort of human warmth, as most social interaction does. He enjoys it.

Once the flight attendant has gone over the various post-flight safety measures, the passengers begin filing off, including Tom.  He takes his solitary bag and deploys the wheels, setting it to the ground as he walks.

He stays with Madam in her city apartment while they’re together.  It’s a short commute from the airport, and he takes the bus which, thankfully, isn’t very full.  It’s raining, and Tom hadn’t brought an umbrella with him, hadn’t thought to pack it or to ask Madam to pack it. He endures the soft, cold rain, like white noise on his cheeks and the back of his neck.  It makes his sweater feel damp. When he’s on Madam’s doorstep, unlocking the door, he’s overcome with the desire to get clean in her shower, wear his clothes that she’s washed in her detergent, surround himself in her sheets that smell like her and her breast that smells of her perfume. He aches for it.

Madam meets him in the entryway. He steps politely out of his shoes, which are spattered with pinprick raindrops. He puts down the bar on his luggage and picks it up, instead. Madam smiles at him, takes his face between her hands and brings him down to kiss her, and he goes along easily and with a soft, warm sound of approval.

“Hello, darling,” he greets her, not adhering to the rules of their bedroom just yet.

“Must be raining,” she says, feeling his hair. She combs her fingers through it. Tom gets this look about him when she strokes his hair, or when she cradles his cheek, like a petted animal, leaning into the touch as though starved for it and endlessly grateful for the affection.

He’s ready, and she must know.  She has a look about her, too, and delicately thumbs his chin, the soft skin of an impeccably close, straight-razor shave. “Go clean up,” she says, and motions for him to leave his luggage behind. “I’ll take care of that.”

Tom obeys, bending again to kiss her. He moves past her, already pulling his sweater over his head, peeling off his damp undershirt and holding both garments in one fist, unfastening his belt buckle with the other hand. He piles the abandoned clothes into the wicker hamper in the corner of her bathroom, the one that holds his dirty laundry when he’s there. Tom struggles with his jeans and trouser socks, but yanks them off, too, hopping on his right foot while the left is freed.

He showers quickly with bottles of shampoo and body wash that she’d bought for him to stay in her shower caddy. When he’s wet, Tom’s hair turns into a mess of floppy curls and half-curls. Coppery half-moons that misbehave all the more when he steps out of the steam and begins to towel himself off. He combs his fingers through his hair, settles it down just the littlest bit. It’s still damp against the nape of his neck, but his skin is dry and clean.

He wraps a towel around his lean waist and holds it closed at his hip. When he leaves the bathroom for Madam’s bedroom, she’s already there. The sight of her stops him in the doorway. The room air is cool on Tom’s bare shoulders.

Madam wears the color of night, deep, dark blue lace shot with threads of silver. With the window open, the long dark drapes spread apart, the moon shafts in and lays across the floor in the distorted shape of Madam’s bedroom window. She’s wearing scalloped lace panties to match the corseted camisole, and Tom can see the soft, padded straps of something around her legs, and around her hips. She’s adjusting them with deft fingers, making sure the harness fits.

“Madam,” Tom says, softly.

“Sweet boy,” she greets in kind, pulling a last strap on the harness without looking back at him. When she’s finished, she does look at him, demurely. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, Madam,” he answers, without knowing what he’s ready for. He’s just ready. With a tilt of her head, Madam indicates that her next gentle order is for him to drop his towel and get in bed. He lets go of the towel edges and lets it slip down his legs and into the floor. Tom climbs up onto Madam’s high bed and settles himself in a nest of pillows that smell of her, gazing at her from where he reclines.

When she turns to appraise him, Tom can see the reason she’d wanted him to be ready—the soft silicone phallus attached to her harness, a similar hue to her flesh, not terribly long or thick. Smaller than his own cock. It won’t be the first time she’s had him this way, but it will be the first time she’s worn the harness to do it. He gets a rush of nerves, the heat of them flooding his cheeks and neck.

“Are you afraid?” Madam asks, not teasingly. “You’re blushing. Embarrassed?”

“Nerves, Madam,” he says, his arms pressed tightly to his sides.

“I want you to relax. Do you remember the breathing we did? The very first time.” As she calls his memory to his, Madam is sliding up onto the bed with her knees, her cock swaying as she moves. She has a tube in her hand that Tom supposes is more lubricant. “Breathe for me. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

Tom tries it. He inhales through his nose and breathes out slowly through his mouth, trying to get his nerves to cooperate. Madam is slithering up between his knees, smiling her mischievous smile. He opens his legs for her, winding one around the back of her thigh, pressing the warm sole of his foot to the calf of her leg.

“Touch my cock,” she says, softly. “I’ll touch yours.”

Just the prospect makes him twitch. Tom glances down at the silicone cock, soft and fleshy-looking. He takes it into his hand, long fingers encircling it easily. At the same time, Madam takes him into her hand, too, and strokes him, wasting no time picking the rhythm that causes him to tense and sigh.

“ _Oh_. Thank you, Madam,” he says, his tone even and behaved. “Thank you.”

“Have you been hungry for this?”

“Yes, Madam.”

“How long have you waited?”

“Since the last time you touched me.”

“Oh,” she says, as if something has occurred to her. She sits back on her heels and Tom follows her to keep his eager hands on her strap-on. She dispenses lubricant into her palm and strokes it over the hot, flushed head of his cock, one tight, rewarding squeeze. Tom sighs, his brow pulling into a furrow, a fleeting look of tormented bliss. “You waited for me, then?”

“Yes, Madam,” he says, unsteadily, now. The words have a pleading quality to them. His hand falters in stroking her cock, but Madam doesn’t mind or doesn’t notice.

“Speak to me, sweet boy. Tell me what you felt, fucking yourself and never touching your cock.” Madam pulls her slick hand away from Tom’s cock and trails the fingers down to his hole. She resumes stroking him with the other hand, and traces her lubed fingertips around the furl of muscle. She knows what it looks like, knows it’s blush-pink and pale and that, though he’s sometimes shameless, it embarrasses him for her to order him onto his knees to show her.

“It was pure agony,” he breathes.  Pupils dilate. His cheeks are well and truly flushed, not with nerves but the anticipation of her slender fingers inside of him. She slides one into him and he gasps. She works the finger inside him in time with the squeezing stroke of her fist and he clenches his eyes shut, grasping for the pillows behind his head. “It feels unlike anything I’ve ever felt. Intense. Sharp. But I couldn’t come.”

“Oh, poor thing,” Madam croons, and pairs her middle finger with the first to slide two into him. She eases both fingers inside of him, curls them back toward herself. Tom lets a quivering mewling sound and shifts himself restlessly. “You’ve got such a tender little sweet spot, don’t you,” she hums, appraising, more statement than question. She presses harder at his prostate to emphasize her meaning and Tom gasps through a clenched jaw, his cock aching against his belly.

“I’m very close, Madam,” he says, gently. “I want nothing more than to come with your cock inside of me. Please fuck me. Please.” Though pleading quite often gets Tom his way with Madam, his begging, now, is genuine.

“Take a breath,” Madam says. “If as soon as my cock is inside you, you lose yourself and come, all this work will be wasted. You worked very hard to get yourself ready for me.” Madam strokes her clean hand through Tom’s hair, pushing it gingerly back, urging him to look up at her with his earnest eyes. “I’d like to enjoy it, too. Yes?”

“Yes, Madam,” Tom agrees, watching her with reverence.

“Hands above your head, my darling. Hold the railing.”

At Madam’s instruction, Tom reaches above his head and circles his hands around the headboard’s iron frame. He feels her warm hands sliding up the backs of his thighs and gently pushing his knees back. He shifts, making himself accessible, eager. With every fiber of him, he’s pleading. The look on his face, the straining of every muscle, the sticky thread of precome connecting the head of his cock to his navel. He works to keep his breathing steady, but there’s no hiding the rapid throb of his pulse behind his collarbone.

Poised between Tom’s knees, Madam dispenses more lubricant onto her fingers. She spreads it liberally onto her cock and speaks softly as she does, “Are you watching?”

Cued, Tom pulls his gaze from her shadowed face and looks to the silicone toy between them as her fist strokes it.

“This is one of my favorite things to watch you do. You have such beautiful hands. You’re so focused on the pursuit of your pleasure and still so devoted to mine. Sweet, sweet boy.”

“May I touch myself, Madam?” Tom asks, squeezing the headboard, his knuckles blanching flushed pink to white.

“Not yet. Not just yet.”

Tom isn’t disappointed to be denied. He knows Madam will never deprive him for very long, and not maliciously. With one hand, Madam holds one of his legs back and out of the way as she knees even closer to him. With the other hand, Madam holds the base of her cock and guides the head of it to stroke Tom’s hole, softer and relaxed-looking now that her fingers have been there, churning inside him.

“Yes,” he breathes, sharp encouragement. Madam hums as if considering him. He’s sinking his teeth into the soft pink of his lower lip, spreading his legs wider, digging one heel into the bed to try to angle his hips upward, as if afraid that she won’t go deep enough.

“Here. Turn onto your stomach,” she instructs, ever gently. Tom goes along, and as he does, Madam places two soft pillows, one on top of the other, underneath his hips. Tom takes another and holds it in his arms, stroking his feverish cheek against it. His cock becomes trapped between the firm muscle of his belly and the soft, easy give of the pillows underneath him.

“Is it alright to come on your pillows, Madam?” he asks politely, catching his breath.

“Yes, my precious darling,” she croons, behind him, now, and guiding her soft hand down the muscular curve of his spine. “What a beautiful view you’ve given me, sweet boy. Thank you.”

“Yes, Madam. Thank you,” Tom breathes, the corner of his mouth pulling into a mischievous little grin, though misbehaving is the furthest thought from his mind. Further still when Madam finally gets one hand on his hip to hold him steady. She presses into him slowly, painstakingly slowly. His thighs tense, bearing the weight of her sinking into him. His breathing eases, but only for moments. The second Madam’s cock is inside him an inch, two inches, Tom feels full with pressure and heat. He digs his fingers into the pillow beneath his chest, spreading his knees.

When she bottoms out, she sighs prettily. She gets both hands on his hips and stays seated deeply inside, savoring the sight and sensation of having him gasping, pressing back against her cock. Her hands path upward, over the chisel of his hips, up over his ribcage and the muscular divots of his shoulders. She slides her fingers up into his hair and he lifts his head for her, exposing his throat. Two fingers press at his mouth and Tom takes them eagerly in, sucking them to the last knuckle. Madam holds them there, a pleasant weight against his tongue.

When she pulls out for the first stroke, Tom’s mouth lewdly falls open, and he moans, a gasping, desperate sound. He wants to push himself up onto his hands, but Madam’s own hands at the small of his back keep him pinned, not by force, but by suggestion. She begins to fuck him in earnest and his knees slide apart farther still, wrinkling the sheets.

“I’m going to take you by the throat,” Madam warns, sweetly.

“Yes. Please.”

Madam’s hand smooths around Tom’s neck, sliding from the back of it to the front, where she takes hold of his throat and squeezes, and at that he groans aloud. She can feel his soft, panting sounds as she finds a rhythm, slow and easy, all the way out, and all the way in, watching the way his pink flesh stretches around her.

Tom’s hands fumble for a hold on anything, finding, finally, the iron wrought headboard. He grasps the bars, and feels Madam’s pace slow as she shifts, stretching out over him. Madam is just over half a foot shorter than Tom, but she makes easy work of reaching out to grasp his hands, her own hands closing around the iron bars over his. She’s so close to him that the next grinding thrust of her hips makes his ears ring for all its depth; he sucks in a harsh breath and steadies himself against the weight of her thrusts.

“Will you come like this?” she asks, laying a slow path of intimate, open-mouthed kisses up the pale-cream curve of his neck.

“Yes,” he breathes coarsely, leaning his head back against Madam’s shoulder. Her right hand stays wrapped around his on the headboard. With her mouth nursing a bitten red spot in the crook of Tom’s neck, her left hand slides down the firm slope of his chest, down his belly that’s ridged with muscle, over his navel and encircling his cock, hot and incredibly flushed. He gasps, rocks his hips back against her, and then forward to rut into her fist.

“I can feel it, too,” Madam says, her composure only faltering. “Each time I push into you, I can feel the pressure. It makes me want to come, too.”

“Yes,” Tom pants, turning his head to try to find her ear to snag the lobe between his teeth. “I'll love for you to come with me, Madam. Please.”

“If only I had a real cock to fuck you with,” she muses. She pulls out, fucks back into him, and rolls her hips tightly against his, a delicious stroke that pulls a half-sobbing gasp from Tom’s mouth each time. “Then I could fill you when I come. Fill you up so you’d be soft and wet for next time. So convenient for me. So wet and warm for me.”

Tom lets go of the headboard and slides the trembling hand down to his cock, fumbling to grasp Madam’s hand around it. “Madam, I beg you,” he whimpers. She obliges, urging him with a touch to release the headboard and press his chest to the bed. Madam relinquishes his cock to Tom’s hand and digs her fingers into his hips, holding him tightly. She isn’t rough with him, but when next she begins to fuck him, it’s faster, and deep, no languid rolling grind of hips at the end of every stroke. In, and out, and so slick-fast that Tom barely has a moment to breathe.

He buries his feverish face into the crook of his arm and lets Madam hold him to every thrust by his hips. The fist on his cock concentrates every second of attention around the weeping crown of it, twisting and squeezing until he’s certain that he’s done for, and all it takes is one last thrust to pluck loose a single thread of him that causes him to fall apart. Tom groans, muffled, into his arm and into Madam’s pillow, helplessly holding his cock while he comes, throbbing, over a satin lavender pillowcase. Madam doesn’t stop fucking him, feels the way his body tenses around her cock and only lengthens her strokes, deeper and longer. Tom’s hand quivers away from his cock and grabs a fistful of sheets; he sounds wild, and desperate, tearful somehow, as he fights for purchase on any solid thing. Barely intelligible curses. Soft gasps hot with the tone of encouragement.

When Madam finishes fucking him, she buries her cock deep in him, and lets her body sink down to the bed with Tom’s. He’s panting so heavily, generating such heat between the flushed surface of his skin and the sheets of Madam’s bed. He laughs, even so, a breathless, elated thing.

“Christ,” Tom murmurs, voice hoarse.

“Wasn’t that nice?” Madam asks. She sits up, pulls gingerly out of him, and spends the next few moments stroking Tom’s back, up to his flushed shoulders and down to the firm curve of his bottom. “You’re such a good boy. My very good boy. Are you hungry?”

“Yes,” Tom says, laughing into his hands as he drops his forehead there. “Starving.” Once Madam has pulled out of him, his hips sink to the bed, too, smearing into the mess he’s made.

“Thank you, Madam,” he says as she stands to remove the harness, pull on a satin robe and amble downstairs to find food for them. He’ll follow her, but not so quickly.

“Oh, no. Thank _you_ , Tom.”


End file.
